MIRANDA
A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION
THE EXPLOSIVE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE MIRANDA SAGA
An Occult Thriller
By
M. R. Sellars
E.M.A. Mysteries
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MIRANDA: A Rowan Gant Investigation
A WillowTree Press Book
E.M.A. Mysteries is an imprint of WillowTree Press
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2010 by M. R. Sellars
Cover Design Copyright © 2010 – On The Edge Graphics
Cover Model – E. K.
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If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.
For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web http://www.willowtreepress.com
Smashwords Edition – 2010
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This list is certainly not comprehensive by any stretch of the imagination. There are many, many folks who make the Rowan Gant series possible, not the least of which are those of you who buy them each time I write a new one. However, the folks listed here have been directly responsible for support, insurance, research, ideas, steak, crackers, beer, assorted boozes, chips and dip, various candies, donuts, ice cream, and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on when things aren’t going the way they are supposed to in my world. For that, I owe them at the very least a kudo or two or six… After all, as my dear friend Tish would say, “It’s a moral imperative.”—
The usual suspects… After being listed in the first eight novels, you should all know who you are by now. Suffice it to say, each of you has my sincerest love, admiration, and thanks for keeping me sane/fed/upright/not lost…
As for additional suspects and persons of interest…
My Ostara Fest buddies, “Lolly,” Doug, Joyce, and Butch…
Anastasia “The A-Bomb” Luettecke, for making sure Felicity curses in Irish Gaelic better than any redhead on the planet…
Virginia “Gina” Witt, MD, for being there to listen to an insane writer guy when he needs technical input on medicine, hospital procedures, and even ICU décor…
Scott “The Chunk Man” McCoy, for bringing me queso dip, corn chips, and wheat beer whenever I’m going down for the third time… And, for being a hell of a friend…
Martha Ackmann, for everything she taught me about journalism and writing, and for still being an inspiration to this day…
Star “Daystar*” Bustamonte, for the best damn fresh roasted coffee on the planet…
My personal playlist/soundtrack while writing this novel: Dead Sound (The Raveonettes), These Are The Times (Styx), Kiss Me Hello (Tommy Shaw), and as always, Can’t Stop The World (Gavin Rossdale)…
Of course, we cannot forget—black patent leather stiletto heels (preferably with my wife wearing them), cardboard, reusable shopping bags, pepper bacon, braunschweiger, grapefruit, capuchin monkeys, 18 year old scotch, Black Bush, garden gnomes, granola, electric pencil sharpeners, left-handed reversible skyhooks, hard salami, pigs in a blanket, clean sheets, bib overalls, breath mints, those little removable sticky things that point to where you are supposed to sign your tax return when it comes back from your accountant, magnifying glasses, and fiber tablets—in that order…
And finally, as always, everyone who takes the time to pick up one of my novels, read it, and then recommends it to a friend.
For Joshua Landtroop.
1988 - 2010
You were a hell of a kid,
who became a hell of a young man.
You will be missed…
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.
In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining—or in some cases, just because I wanted to do so.
Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character telling the story. Since Rowan (and anyone else that I know of for that matter) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support this illusion of reality.
Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE. Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors miss a few now and then. They are no more perfect than you or me.
Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit mine either.
And, yes, some of the magick is “over the top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…
Mi•ran•da [mi-ran-duh] –noun: Invented by Shakespeare for the heroine of The Tempest (1611). It represents the feminine form of the Latin gerundive mirandus 'admirable', 'lovely', from mirari 'to wonder at', 'admire'; cf. Amanda.
—Oxford Concise Dictionary of First Names
Blanque, MIRANDA: A perverse and sadistic murderess of early and middle 1800’s New Orleans, Louisiana, who is rumored to have derived autoerotic gratification from the intense suffering of her victims. Sister of Delphine LaLaurie, it has been theorized that the siblings were jointly responsible for the torture and subsequent deaths of numerous household slaves as reported in the New Orleans Bee, 1834. [See also Mistress Miranda; Devereaux, Annalise; LaLaurie, Delphine; paraphilia; sexual homicide; sadism; spirit possession, Voodoo]
—Excerpted from
Hell Hath No Fury: A Comprehensive Study of Women Who Kill
Luettecke, Seitz, & Witt – BCM Press
Revised Third Edition, March 2006
“Do you love me?”
Miranda, Prospero’s Daughter
From William Shakespeare’s, “The Tempest”
Act 3, Scene 1 - Circa 1611
“Now, let us see how much you love me.”
Miranda Blanque
Prior to torturing a household slave
LaLaurie House Attic - New Orleans, Louisiana, April 1834
“Relax, little man. I’m just showing you how much we love you…”
Mistress Miranda / Annalise Devereaux
While torturing a subservient
The Whine Cellar BDSM Club – Bridge, Illinois, December 2005
PROLOGUE
Excerpted from Rowan Gant’s Personal Book of Shadows:
7/13 - 3:30 AM:
I can’t sleep. I need to but I can’t.
We have a really long day tomorrow. Almost 20 hours of sitting in airports and on airplanes, not
to mention Ireland is 6 hours ahead of us, so that’s going to screw me up too.
But, here I am wide-awake. I suppose I could blame it on excitement, but I know damn well that’s not why. It’s that time of the year. The anniversary of Ariel’s murder is coming back around soon, and this is just par for the course. Hard to believe it’s been less than a decade now. Not even a full ten years since her death turned my life into this unending nightmare. But, knowing that doesn’t change a thing. It still seems like it all happened forever ago. Maybe it’s because of this surreal existence of mine. Maybe it’s because I wish it would just go away. I want to forget all of it. The horror, the pain, the images… But I can’t. The nightmares never fade, and it doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or awake. They’re always there. I have a feeling they will be until I die. I guess that’s what I get for being a Witch.
Of course, I’m not really a normal Witch now, am I? Hell, even other neo-Pagans think I’m more than a little out there. They go bang on drums and dance around a fire. Me, I have conversations with dead people. All things being equal, I’d much rather join them around the fire.
In retrospect I don’t suppose I should have been shocked when the dead started talking to me. After all, I really brought it all upon myself when I purposely used WitchCraft to make a connection with their world in order to help solve Ariel’s murder. Although, lately I’ve found myself wondering if my ethereal insight is truly borne of my practice of The Craft or if this would be happening to me even if I weren’t a Witch. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Like that movie about the guy who turned into a supergenius because of a brain tumor. Maybe I’ve got one too. Who the hell knows? Maybe I’m just plain abnormal. Of course, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. WitchCraft is where it all started, so it’s what got me here in the first place. Whether I’m abnormal or not, the rest is really just a moot point I guess.
If only Ben hadn’t noticed that I was wearing a pentacle around my neck. If only he hadn’t asked for my help. If only, if only… It just never ends. I guess what it comes down to is that I should have stayed out of it. Just answered his questions and left it at that. If I’d been smart, that’s what I would’ve done. Then I would never have opened the door that led me down this path. But I couldn’t stay out of it. The victim was Ariel. She was my friend. In my mind I didn’t have a choice.
Of course, like they say, hindsight is 20/20. There’s nothing I can do about it now, other than drive myself crazy with all of the “if onlys” and second-guessing. The door between the world of the living and the realm of the dead is open for me now, whether I like it or not.
Live and learn, I guess… That’s something else they say, whoever the hell “they” is.
I guess I’m just cursed. The dead are my personal bad pennies that keep turning up. I close my eyes and they’re there. I open my eyes and they’re there. Day, night, sleep, wake… It doesn’t matter, they just won’t go away. Ignoring them doesn’t work either. I’ve tried. Gods how I’ve tried. And listening to them… Well, that just gets me into trouble. Everyone around me too. That’s the worst part. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Why Felicity puts up with it I don’t know. Her life would be so much easier if she’d never even met me. But, if we’d never met I’d probably already be dead. Morbid, I know, but somehow she keeps me sane and alive. Somebody has to.
I’m just rambling now. I guess that’s no surprise either. I really need to get some sleep.
Sunday, December 24
5:22 P.M.
Saint Louis, Missouri
“C’mere and tell me what ya’ think.” Ben called out over his shoulder then stood back and cocked his head to the side in order to inspect his handiwork.
Constance wandered in from the kitchen and stood next to him, hands resting on her hips. “What I think about what?”
At six-foot-six, Ben stood at least a head taller than her, so as she spoke, she glanced up at him then followed his obviously preoccupied gaze to the end of the living room.
“Whaddaya mean, about what?” he said as he gestured. “About that. So does it look better or not?”
She gazed quietly at the rank and file for several seconds, scanning back and forth with her eyes. Finally, she replied, “It looks like all you did was move the tall one.”
“That’s Big Ben.”
“Big Ben? You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, why not? He’s as tall as I am, ain’t he?”
“Taller, actually.”
“So there ya’ go.”
“Okay…” She paused then scrunched her brow as incredulity crept into her voice. “But you named them?”
“Not all of ‘em. Just some of ‘em.”
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“Yeah, whatever. Look again. I did more’n just move Big Ben,” he said, pointing at the mantle. “I swapped the two on the ends, and moved Sparky…”
“Sparky?”
“The fireman.”
“Oh.”
“So, anyway, then I rearranged all those small guys in the middle too. See?”
“Oh…” she said, a not quite hidden chuckle in her voice. “Well, I hate to say it, but other than the tall… I mean, Big Ben, it all looks the same to me.”
“The same?” he blurted, disbelief underscoring the words. “I’ve been movin’ ‘em for half an hour. You’re not very observant for a Feeb, are ya’?”
“Give me a break. There must be seventy of them for God’s sake. Any more and we wouldn’t even be able to see the Christmas tree.”
His tone turned momentarily boastful as he pointed at the middle of the front row. “Seventy my ass. There’re a hundred and twenty-two countin’ the new guy there.”
“He have a name?”
“Not yet. Still thinkin’ about it.”
“I see. Well, suffice it to say you just made my case for me.”
“But the same?” he groused. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? It doesn’t look the same.”
She shrugged. “Sorry, but it does to me.”
“Dammit…” Ben muttered then huffed out a heavy sigh as he began to point. “Well, okay… So, what if I put Big Ben over there instead, and then put all the…”
Constance cut him off before he could continue. “Ben, relax, will you? They look just fine the way they are… And they looked fine when you started this… And they even looked fine when you set them up three week ago.”
“To you, maybe,” he grunted. “But they gotta be just right.”
“They’re fine,” she repeated a bit more forcefully, while continuing to stare at the display. After a moment she clucked her tongue and said, “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to explain to me exactly how you became so obsessed with nutcrackers.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
“One hundred twenty-two of them, Ben? And you buy at least one new one every year.”
“I collect ‘em. It’s a hobby.”
Constance shook her head. “Sure, okay. Whatever you say. Now quit playing with your dolls and come show me where you keep your paprika. Rowan and Felicity and your sister are going to be here soon, and I still have to change. I’d really like to have dinner ready on time.”
“Paprika… Ain’t that the red stuff ya’ use ta’ decorate deviled eggs?”
“It’s not for decorating,” she sighed. “It’s for seasoning. You do actually have some, don’t you? Please tell me you do.”
“Hell, I dunno,” he grunted as he followed her toward the kitchen. “I try not ta’ cook unless I absolutely have to.”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed. Well if you don’t have any, then you need to run to the store.”
“Why me?”
“Because I’m cooking, and like I said, I still have to change before our guests arrive. Not very observant for a cop, are you?”
He chuckled. “Funny. Real funny.”
A muted electronic tone sounded and then began to warble into a series of syncopated notes
that steadily gained in volume. Ben pulled the chirruping cell phone from his belt and gave the screen a glance before quickly flashing it at Constance.
“Speakin’ of our guests…” he announced and then exclaimed, “Oh, damn! I was s’posed to call Row about Firehair’s present.” He unfolded the phone then placed it against his ear and answered with, “Merry freakin’ ho, ho, ho, Kemosabe…”
At first the only thing to greet him was a muffled thud.
He tried again. “Hello?”
This time the thud was replaced by a loud crash issuing from the small speaker. The noise was sharp enough that Ben jerked the phone away from his ear before bringing it back close enough to listen. A skittering hiss rolled out behind the crash and was punctuated by a hard clatter and thump.
“Rowan?” he barked. “Are you there?”
In answer, a woman’s angry scream bled into his ear, only to be joined a split second later by his friend’s voice calling out to him before it was suddenly choked off in a howl of pain.
Ben all but screamed into the phone, “…ROWAN? ROWAN?! GODDAMMIT! WHAT THE HELL’S HAPPENIN’ OVER THERE?! JEEZUS H CHRIST… ROWAN!”
Miranda: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 1